


Mud on the tongue

by hikachu



Category: Berserk
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikachu/pseuds/hikachu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He drums his fingers against the table, humming, confused, and about to give up (in the end, this is none of his business) when all the pieces snap into place before he can do anything to stop them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mud on the tongue

Judeau is telling one of the stories from when he was still with the circus (only because Rickert wouldn't stop pestering him about it; he's not the type to share memories like that otherwise, it feels too much like bragging) when the door squeaks open and the moonlight from outside draws straight, thick lines on the stone pavement.

Everyone in the tavern looks up. Griffith walks in with a smile that would look sheepish on anyone else. On his lips it's a mix of childishly innocent and mischievous.

There are about fifteen Hawks sitting at the long, old table of chipped wood with Judeau; they barely give Griffith the time to say, hey, before they start a small ruckus to greet him: some raise their arms, a fist; some, half drunk, even stand up to salute him; there are huge grins plastered on their faces and their cheeks are pink with alcohol, pride and elation. It's been a while since Griffith's had the time to eat with his men after all, Judeau thinks, feeling his heart warm up.

"Hey, hey! Someone fetch Griffith a mug of wine and—"

"A stool! A stool for Griffith!"

"It's fine. Go back to your dinner, guys. It's fine, really," Griffith chuckles.

Then he slides on a bench that seems as decrepit as the table, next to Guts. He does it effortlessly, with the same precise grace from when he mounts his horse before battle.

Their shoulders touch and their elbows bump together when their forearms shift across the table: the bench was meant to accommodate two people, but Guts is huge – second only to Pippin in the whole Band – and everybody knows that even though he's not as irritable as he used to be when it comes to physical contact, he still doesn't appreciate having people plastered against his side for no reason in particular.

Griffith, however, doesn't seem to care and, somehow, neither does Guts.

"So, how'd it go with the princess? You guys have a tea party with her dolls this time?"

"I'll have you know, escorting the princess to her favorite play is actually an important and honored task," Griffith's eyes are fixed on his own hands, fingers splayed on the table elegantly and back straight—the perfect portrait of a haughty nobleman. Until his lips twitch, at least, and at first he does try to fight it, but then his shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter and he gives up.

Guts observes him with a roguish smirk that seems to grow larger by the second. Judeau recalls an exasperated Casca having to stop Guts from walking into one of the king's feasts just to ask Griffith if he'd like to spar because  _it's been days since the last time and who cares 'bout these geezers anyways_  several times through the past week. He's missed Griffith too.

"Hey man, calm down now," Guts is snickering, almost. "You're gonna choke at this ra—Whoa, wait, that wine's mine!"

And it is. He's paid for it and a dish of potatoes and roasted lamb with the money he earned with the last campaign.

But, again, Griffith doesn't seem to care.

"Forgive me, but I  _simply_  needed something to drink to keep myself from, well,  _choking_."

"Jesus, will ya stop talking like some pompous—"

"Yeah, yeah," Griffith laughs again, but this time it's short and soft. "The next round is on me, alright?"

Guts nods and decides to empty the mug of whatever's left (for good measure, of course) as he waits for more.

His features shift from annoyed to amused back and forth while Griffith tells him stupid stories about stupid nobles and their stupid quirks.

Judeau sees him staring at Griffith over the battered rim of the mug when Griffith falls silent from time to time, perhaps thinking back on something or deciding what story should he tell next. Perhaps. They seem both oddly serious in those moments, after all.

At some point Guts looks away, mutters something that makes Griffith look up, blink, laugh, loud, very loud, and completely unrestrained, natural. It's so sudden, so unlike the man who remains cool and collected even when he's laughing at one of his men's jokes around the campfire.

Judeau never knew Griffith could laugh like this. He wonders if it's some inside joke that he can't, doesn't get, because Griffith has never laughed like this around anyone else, not because of anyone else.

The laughter leaves his cheeks a bit flushed. Guts seems to notice too, and his smile softens. Griffith then talks, pats him on the shoulder and Guts scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, as if he's not sure what to do with his hands anymore. It's like they're metaphorically dancing around each other without any apparent reason, without even being aware of it.

They aren't discussing anything that is either important or serious or funny or heartwarming ("What'd ya mean, another appointment with the seamstress? I got more clothes now than I did my whole life!" "… Me too. But that is beside the point.") yet there is this atmosphere around them, that is thick and somewhat mysterious. Guts, who only follows his own instincts and couldn't care less for glory, peerage, etiquette, feasts, the king and the kingdom itself, listens to Griffith like a domesticated dog ("You'll need it for the banquet next week: I need you, Casca and the others to come with me, this time." "Ah well, if it's like that then…"). And then there is Griffith, with his slightly reddened cheeks and that laugh Judeau has never heard before.

He drums his fingers against the table, humming, confused, and about to give up (in the end, this is none of his business) when all the pieces snap into place before he can do anything to stop them: Judeau  _realizes_ , and as he does, the reasons behind Casca's frustration and jealousy multiply and become clearer before his eyes.

It's almost dawn when he leaves the tavern, mind fuzzy with alcohol and endless background chatter, wondering where this thing is going to take them all.


End file.
